My Mother’s Room
By Jaclyn Burr

I remember waking up at night,
crawling out of my crib,
and ambling down the hallway
to my mother’s room.
She’d welcome me with warmth,
discounting her own fatigue
with soothing whispers
of unconditional understanding.

Sometimes, I still cry at night.
I lay,
staring into blackness.
Lukewarm tears plunge
through charcoal lashes,
searing my scorched cheeks—
a silent stream
flooding over desert rocks.
They glide down the contours of my neck,
bathing my pillow
in final acceptance of my anguish.

On those nights,
I long to wander down that long, dark hallway,
soft hickory creaking beneath my fragile steps,
and fall into the shelter of her arms.